Chapter 10 #2
The cellar seemed suddenly very quiet. Somewhere above them, a door closed faintly, and water dripped from some unseen corner into a puddle with slow, steady plinks.
Darcy realized he was waiting for Miss Elizabeth’s answer as much as Mr. Philips’s.
That unsettled him.
She was muddy, disheveled, plainly exhausted, and still so compelling that he found himself watching the thoughts move across her face. Caution. Curiosity. Responsibility. A sharp flicker of hope quickly suppressed.
At last, she looked at her uncle.
Mr. Philips looked back.
Darcy stood before them with a Roman coin in his hand and held his breath.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth looked at her uncle.
For all his calm speech and practical habits, indecision was plain upon Mr. Philips’s face.
It was not fear alone, though fear was certainly there.
Nor was it hope alone, though that too had begun to show in his eyes despite every effort to suppress it.
It was the same bewildering mixture Elizabeth felt twisting inside her own breast.
What did such a discovery mean?
Delay, certainly. Confusion, almost inevitably.
Officials, inquiries, scholars, perhaps the Crown itself.
The careful settling of her uncle’s affairs might be slowed by months, even years, and the children’s future had already suffered enough uncertainty.
Yet if Mr. Darcy was correct—if what lay beneath this house was truly Roman, truly ancient, truly valuable beyond the ordinary understanding of value—then perhaps this hidden thing, buried for centuries beneath Gracechurch Street, had emerged at the precise moment three orphaned children most needed Providence to remember them.
Elizabeth looked once more at the open trap door. The dark square in the floor seemed less sinister now and more like a question awaiting answer.
“Uncle,” she said quietly, “think of the magnitude of it. If Mr. Darcy is correct, then this is not merely a few old coins hidden in a cellar. It may slow the children’s affairs, yes, but Edward, Sophie, and Thomas will not need the proceeds from the sale of the house this year, nor even in the next five years.
They are safe at Longbourn for now. If this is handled properly, might it not someday bless them far more than a quick sale ever could? ”
Mr. Philips’s mouth tightened as he considered. Elizabeth saw his thoughts moving as plainly as if he had spoken them aloud: legal duties, family obligations, risk, propriety, expense, responsibility. Then his gaze dropped to the coin in Mr. Darcy’s hand, and something in his face shifted.
At last he nodded.
Elizabeth felt excitement rise so swiftly that she nearly forgot her muddy gown, her ruined shoe, and the damp chill of the cellar.
For days she had moved from one sorrowful necessity to the next, sorting, packing, soothing, listing, deciding.
Now, for the first time since the express arrived, the future seemed to open rather than close.
Mr. Philips turned to Mr. Darcy. “Very well. We shall accept your assistance, sir. I know very little of Roman antiquities and even less of how such matters ought to be presented to the Crown without inviting confusion or abuse.”
Mr. Darcy’s expression eased, though only slightly.
He did not smile, not exactly, but the intensity in his eyes deepened in a way Elizabeth found oddly compelling.
“Then we should begin with caution. Nothing further should be disturbed below until men qualified to examine it can be consulted. I would also suggest the opening be secured and the servants cautioned to speak of it to no one for the present.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Philips said. “We shall go back to Edward’s office and put together a plan. I should like to know precisely who must be notified before we act.”
Elizabeth stepped forward at once, intending to follow them, but Mr. Philips had reached the bottom of the stairs when he paused and looked back at her. His expression, which had been all solemn business a moment before, altered as he took in her appearance again.
He cleared his throat. “Lizzy.”
“Yes?”
“You may wish to… tidy up.”
She glanced down.
The mud had dried in streaks along the front of her gown, one sleeve was smeared with black cellar grime, and the hem hung heavily about her ankles. Her working glove dangled from one hand, and the other was bare, dirty, and still faintly trembling from excitement.
Mr. Philips’s brow rose. “And for heaven’s sake, do not go back down there.”
“I shall not.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“I mean it, Lizzy.”
“So did I.”
He looked unconvinced.
Elizabeth sighed. “Very well. I promise I shall not return to the mysterious subterranean chamber beneath the cellar floor until you give permission, or until the house catches fire, or until some equally persuasive emergency arises.”
“Without qualifications.”
“Uncle.”
“Without qualifications.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I promise I shall not go back down there.”
“Good.” Satisfied only because he had extracted obedience twice, Mr. Philips turned and motioned Mr. Darcy to precede him. “Come, sir. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Elizabeth remained where she was until their footsteps had faded up the stairs. Mr. Darcy did not look back, which was a mercy. Or perhaps not. She could not decide which possibility mortified her more.
Susie waited only until the men were out of hearing before taking Elizabeth by the arm. “Come upstairs.”
“I ought to help secure the trap door.”
“You ought to be boiled.”
Elizabeth stopped. “Boiled?”
“In hot water. With soap. Possibly lye, though I daresay that would ruin your complexion.”
Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “That sounds severe.”
“You have mud in your hair, Miss Lizzy.”
“I do not.”
Susie gave her a look and led her toward the stairs with the determined authority of a woman who had survived flood, death, deserting servants, and one reckless gentlewoman too many. “I shall have Cook put water on at once.”
“A bath seems excessive. I could wash my hands and change my gown.”
Susie said nothing. She merely guided Elizabeth upstairs, across the hall, and positioned her before the looking glass near the passage.
Elizabeth gasped.
There was no other possible response.
She looked dreadful. Not charmingly disheveled.
Not romantically distressed. Dreadful. A streak of mud crossed one cheek like war paint.
Several curls had escaped and now hung limply about her face.
Her gown was stained from hem to waist, and one shoulder bore the unmistakable remains of cobweb.
Her bare hand was filthy, and a thin dark line of mud had found its way beneath her fingernails.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Susie’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”
“Mr. Darcy saw me like this.”
“Yes.”